


Pill Bugs

by R_Credence_Hannibal



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Coping, Depressing, Drabble, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Psychotropic Drugs, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 16:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Credence_Hannibal/pseuds/R_Credence_Hannibal
Summary: There’s this new drug on the streets and Freddy forgot all about what is and isn’t in the protocol.The pills make him go back and fix it and he’s popping them until he stays there.





	Pill Bugs

        There’s this new drug on the streets and Freddy forgot all about what is and isn’t in the protocol. When he first saw them, he curled his lip in disgust and in his mind he sighed. It’s better to show fake disgust than nothing at all. A blank face gives everything away. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s unfazed by the same old shit at this point but he doesn’t have the words to lie about it; instead, he opts to a deal with the frisky-fingered smooth talker and brings some of the pills home for himself. He lets him go and that’s something — if he was younger, with a bright future blinding his mind like the sunglasses he always wore — he wouldn’t have done back then. But things change. He didn’t used to believe that — he used to believe in morality and that all the bullies that were his bullies were the ones he was fighting; but of course, that led to the main shit-storm of his life. Lawrence “Larry” Dimick essentially ruined his life, not directly. Freddy was the one who was blind to what was happening until he watched himself take it all away. It’s an overwhelming sense of guilt and grief that he carries with him, making him cold to the world around him. He doesn’t talk to his new partner but the chief never complains about it. He’s learned that Freddy doesn’t listen and never will; regardless, he’s too good of a cop to let go and he knows everyone’s secrets. He knows who’s been paid off and who’s paying.

 

        He smokes regularly outside the station, wearing the same damn sunglasses he did all those years ago, and holds the bag of pills in his pocket. When he walks home, he tells himself that this won’t change anything; he tells himself that the effort alone is pointless. But when opens the door to his lonely studio apartment — when he sees the damn Polaroid in the corner of Larry and himself, when he sees how he’s smiling and thinks how he never smiles like that now — he no longer tells himself it won’t change things. He knows it won’t but maybe — just maybe — it’ll make him feel something. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. Only when he thinks of Larry does he ever remember what it was like to be happy. He remembers that giddy feeling he got when Larry told him he did a good job. He remembers that nervous feeling when he asked about his wedding ring; he remembers how he had considered telling him everything there and then. He sits down on the creaky leather chair and puts his feet up on the ottoman with a deep sigh. The dealer told him that the drug brought the user to the ultimate state of euphoria with their happiest of memories. Freddy smirks mirthlessly as he pops one in his mouth and stares up at the ceiling. The pill dissolves on his tongue and tastes like candy-flavored charcoal. He doesn’t complain but after a few minutes, he can feel the effects settle in.

 

        The dark colors of his dimly lit room become red-hot neon signs. He holds up his hand and sees blinking neon outlines, his skin resembling the pebble texture of a glowing fish tank; he feels himself return back to the days of the Dogs, young and lean again. He smiles and gets out of the chair. As he does, the neon lighting follows him. The small kitchenette and mattress become alight with nauseous pink and green. Freddy looks around in amazement at the sight of his lit up apartment. His face displays an unfiltered sense of whimsical wonder. The only thing left unlit is the closet and he knows exactly why. Regardless, he walks towards it, stumbling over the bedpost as he does. He opens it shakily to reveal many shirts and flannels on wire hangers. Each hanger, one by one, left to right, outlined in that same neon color. Then, the very last hanger, the one pushed away from the rest of the forgettable tops, begins to shine. It’s a plaid button up flannel that Freddy always left unbuttoned when he used to wear it. The outline starts to flash at almost epileptic levels of green, blue, pink, and orange. He takes it off the hanger, as if to inspect, eyes wide with curiosity. He stares at it, feeling the thin fabric in his hands. He isn’t sure what to think because his very mind is numb by all the sensory overload. He can’t speak or, if he can, he isn’t able to tell whether or not he is speaking.

 

        But, suddenly, like a godsend, there is a guiding light through the tunnel vision. Freddy feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him around slowly. He turns with the hand, letting whoever it is guide him. At first, they are only a shadow, all color and light gone from them; it hides the details and dimensions of their face. But, Freddy doesn’t need any of those things to know who it is. He tries with all his might to reach out to them but his motor functions seem untuned. He can feel himself become suddenly unsteady on his feet, as if the ground beneath him is shaking. Then, gradually, the neon lights fade away and so does the figure. Freddy is left cradling his older body, a strange pain in his stomach returning to him. He knows that pain and wishes it wasn’t just phantom. He walks to his mattress, stumbling against the bedpost; he clings to it like a sailor on rocky waters, grasping at the wood so tight his knuckles turn white. His fingernails dig into his palms and he relinquishes a sigh of relief at the stinging pain. He lets go of the bedpost only when he feels steady enough to walk on his own.

 

        The next day he does not go into the station. The pills make him go back and fix it and he’s popping them until he stays there. At a point, he reminds himself that this will have consequences; but, his mind only answers him with another question: _why do those consequences matter?_ After he thinks it over for a while, he decides to pop two into his mouth the next time. They dissolve a little slower than the first one did. Freddy shakes his right leg up and down until they both dissolve completely on his tongue. He sits and waits and then the neon lights slowly return. They flicker on a little faster than they did before; the pattern of events stay the same, all moving a little more quickly than they did before. The morning light that filters through Freddy’s windows is a lot more disorientating to him as the light shines flashes of neon pink and green through the shut blinds. So he gets to that familiar figure much closer. When he turns around it’s faster and more enthusiastic; he’s ready. The face is longer covered in shadow, shown to Freddy with no cover or disguise. It’s Larry Dimick. The defining details of his face are present. His tanned skin, his bulky frame, his deep wrinkles and creases on his face. His dark eyes and big nose, his suit and tie. Everything is in place. But despite all of this reassurance, Freddy still knows, by the nagging voice of reason in the back of his head, that none of this is real. He ignores it, as he tries to grab a hold of him to no avail. He can only feel him when he touches him. He whines and tries to spit out the words but they do not come. He can see Larry smiling at him.

 

        “Hey kid,” he greets. “How’s life been treatin’ you?” Freddy is instantly relaxed as Larry comes to hug him. He can feel a strange sense of pressure where his body hugs his frame, not human but definitely present. He has a toothpick in the corner of his mouth and he switches it to the opposite corner of his lips. Freddy is in paradise. His head is snug in the crook of Larry’s neck. He feels a hand-shaped pressure remaining on his head. He feels like they could stay that way forever. “Kid, you don’t know how much I missed you.” Freddy feels his face heat up, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. If he wasn’t on whatever-they-call-this-shit, he would be slapping himself right now. Larry pulls back to see Freddy’s face, his hand resting on his neck and thumb on his jawline. Freddy cannot deny that he’s missed this as well, but has no way to tell him. “It’s okay, Freddy. I can finally read all of those thoughts now. Wish I could’ve before.” He laughs a little in between speaking, as if nervous. Freddy knows that everything he is saying to him is just his own thoughts of what he’d want to hear Larry say to him. He knows that this wasn’t what he was thinking when he was shot down. He knows that whatever he was thinking it wasn’t any of this. He, however, plays along with the illusion because it all feels too good to let go. Reality won’t catch up with him here, he won’t let it. “Well...all things considered, it would’ve been helpful to know you were a pig the whole fuckin’ time...” Time freezes and the soothing hand and touch is now damaging. Freddy thinks the vision is going away faster this time, the lights flickering away faster. He desperately tries to keep Larry’s thumb on his jaw but he disappears, going back to the figure then dissolving completely behind the neon glow. He falls to the ground, curls up on the dusty rug, and holds himself. The neon lights fade around him as well, leaving Freddy alone and unable to comprehend what has happened. 

 

        His throat is dead dry, his pupils are dilated and his scleras are pink. He feels no reason to take any more of the drugs. He feels no reason to do anything anymore. He can feel his stomach grumbling for something to eat, the rumbling city behind him sounding more like white noise than anything. After a while, Freddy manages to pick himself up and eat some leftovers he finds in the fridge. He is cold now as the sweat he had before has cooled on his skin. He showers and dresses and he’s sure the drug’s effects still linger on him; he puts on those sunglasses he always wears. He takes one more thing with him before he leaves his flat and enters the outside world. He avoids the police station, going through every back alley he knows no one else goes through. He walks and walks until he finds himself where he wants to be. He walks around with a cold expression on himself, unwavering and overwhelmingly detached from the world around him. He ignores it all, as he always did. He only plays good cop when he has to, when he’s expected to. When he enters the graveyard, he doesn’t flinch. When he finds the gravestone, he does. He kneels down in front of it, taking off the sunglasses for a few moments. He wipes away at his eyes, preventing any tears that might’ve come. He sighs and shudders as he does. There is an overwhelming sense of loss within Freddy, threatening to burst out. But, it is also accompanied by rage; the rage of knowing that if Larry were still alive, he would not be. The knowledge that Larry loved him and let everything come last for Freddy. He takes the ring out of his pocket, places it on the grassy area in front of Larry’s gravestone, and walks away. There isn't much left to do and the weather isn't great either, so he figures he should just stay inside.

 

        The following day, Freddy was found dead with an empty plastic bag by his body. His neighbor, Fontaine, had come to check on him after he heard a strange commotion coming from inside. He knew Freddy well enough to know that it wasn’t normal at all for his apartment to be so loud. He knocked a couple times, then he went down the long fleet of stairs to the landlord’s office. The landlord, John Pepper, never liked it when people came to him in these types of situations. As soon as Fontaine had told him what was happening, he knew that it would lead them to a scene of some kind. He walked back up the fleet of stairs, a bit of sweat caking on Fontaine’s forehead. They opened the door and then promptly dialed for the police. His eyes were open and his scleras were red, pupils dilated to the fullest. When his body died, his veins had constrained fully and then deflated the moment that the body failed. His skin was becoming somewhat paler than it usually was.  Cops at the scene were baffled by it; but, the lingering shock did not overpower another emotion flowing through the flat. The atmosphere, the drugs, the man. All of it is a mystery waiting to be unraveled; with the plant dying, its leaves fall one by one, corroding the vine itself over time. Nobody saw it because nobody looked. It was never to be anything but the two pill bugs. There is nothing but the two of them, on the dying vines, the falling leaves, and the heaven above, waiting for them. The cops marked it an accident and filed the paperwork the same night. The file was stored and never reopened. The vine was dead, the pill bugs were dead, and the leaves all had fallen. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
